My Own Blood Shot Blues

How many girls in blue Volvos with pink hair are there to pick you up at the airport? Light eyes and soft tears as I wait for you to meet me. Focusing ahead and wasting breath. You get in my car smelling of floating diseases on the back of airplane seats cut through with cigarette smoke scars. The winter air kisses the door as you pull it shut and wrap your arms around me. You whisper about wanting to touch me as your hands cup my chin and our lips dance together in the hail of cop lights. I ask you where you wanna go and you say you're thirsty. The roads wind out before us into oblivion. I park real sloppy and we sip coffee, inviting Stolichnaya and Jack Daniels along for the ride, and whisper about our past lives. Whispers tell kind stories of the loves we almost had and the pain that'll take its toll, you know, white lines of the devil's stuff.

He infected every sliver of my banal existence with his lies. It was a mutual brutal obsession; we both knew it would end in vehemence. There is nothing as intense as young love marked in peaks with substance use. I whisper forever against your throat about a day in the vodka breaths that cover the in-betweens in waves of excruciating passion. "Come roll with me," I say and he knows what I'm asking before I say it. I'll line my mouth with razorblades and whisper "Come inside." He waits for me under the bridge a canopy of our all consuming culture but I am nowhere to be seen as the ghosts of blunts make whispers in his lungs. I beg to be cradled but won't even take the time to motion to him above the breaking waves. Wasted into the infinity, even when we break we'll still have forever. Forever to make rings out of thorns and tear our selves to pieces between the scars that we've made. Forever to find a wedding dress that I'll stitch out of spider's web and dew drops, and all that fragile elegance.

You just don't understand, this is what decay looks like. And with that I know that we can't last. The voice of reason comes in the form of a boy/man. His experiences are carved in his features and I can only guess at what his life has dictated to him. He's capable of making me smile and laugh and at the same time feel utterly horrible inside because I know that what he's saying is the truth. I know that somewhere along the way he learned the lesson I'll soon learn and it stuck with him. I know he's just trying to save me and I'm stubborn and I'm lonely, but am I still in love? Has the voice of reason almost triumphed? I almost can't trust him fully; my mind decides that he can't stand to see people happy. Some sort of bullshit to cover up what I know is really true. That his words have reason, methodical reasoning behind them. In a drunken haze he came to me. A dream bending over my wrenching, ill corpse. Somehow I took this to mean something, nothing, I don't know. I'll watch the cards play themselves out, we're hardened by the damage in life and we have no sympathy for those who haven't been.

I've scared my lungs with powder and love-lust and you'll come to me between the two and carry me, blood bleeding, to the tub to wash my gashes clean. You warm your hands in the murky rose water and press my wounds shut. Stitched up with grey thread you closed our tale and held my hand the entire time. You cut me up forever and carved the days in my flesh with your words. This was everything and nothing and lies and love all at once.

We bathed ourselves among the lilies and sewage in the river. And drank until our livers were like hearts pumping red. We whipped around the bends in the road trading kisses and petting each other like dogs. Someday I'll mess up. And then it will be; beautiful doll parts strewn over beautiful asphalt. The darkness fades into the crevices of the road under the scrutiny of the high beams. And we'll be numb and sore and in love all at once, lying in our own chalked out lines waiting for the body bags. My breath smells like chocolate and vodka and you're lying next to me with a severed spine. My thoughts run through synapses and grey matter. And these, they make up my own blood shot blues.